Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

“Is there another Prince of Hell with tentacles threatening the Institute, then?” Matthew asked wearily. “Because I have to say, if so, my instinct is to sit this one out.”


Magnus gave him a stern look. “The Inquisitor has returned, and the news he has brought is bleak. Tatiana Blackthorn has escaped from the Adamant Citadel and joined forces with Belial. You must return with me to London posthaste; there is much to be discussed.”





9 IF GOLD RUST




If gold rust, what then can iron do?

—Geoffrey Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales



Given the grim way Magnus had delivered his news, Cordelia had half expected the Portal he created to open onto a scene of chaos—a battle, a crowd, frightened people shouting at each other.

Instead it opened onto a cool darkness, and the smell of chilled stone. She blinked away her dizziness, knowing they were underground: this was the Institute’s crypt, where a permanent Portal resided.

She looked quickly at her companions. The last time she had been here, she and Matthew were arguing with James as he prepared to pass through the Portal into Idris to foil Tatiana’s plans. And because of Grace, said a small voice in her head. He did it for Grace.

This had been the turning point, she thought, in her life: James had gone through, and she and Matthew had followed. Blackthorn Manor had burned; James had been accused, Cordelia had spoken up to defend him; James had proposed to save her reputation, and everything had changed forever.

She was not the same person she had been then, she thought, as Magnus made a gesture, and the brass lamps lining the walls lit, casting the stone walls in eerie gold. She had learned so much since then, of what people were capable of—of what she herself was capable of—and she had learned that things could not be changed by willing them to be different. Dreams, hopes, wishes, were just that. Strength lay in keeping tight hold of reality, even if it was like grasping a stinging nettle in her hand.

The four of them made their way up the stone steps to the Institute’s ground floor. Through the windows, London welcomed them back with a gray snow, gusting in swirls and eddies against the glass, and a washed-out steel sky.

Neither James nor Matthew would look at her or at each other. James wore the expression she had dubbed the Mask—blank and unmoving, he adopted it when he wanted none of his feelings to show—and Matthew, she thought, possessed a mask just as sturdy in its own way: a distant, faintly amused look, as if he were watching a not very well-written play. She felt the force of their determined silence like the pressure drop before a storm.

Her saving grace was Magnus, who came to walk beside Cordelia the moment they exited the Portal. He did it so gracefully that Cordelia thought at first that he was merely being polite. She realized a moment later that of course he had recognized the awkwardness of the situation when he’d arrived at Le Meurice. Dramatics, he’d said in a bored tone, but the sympathy in his eyes when he looked at her was genuine.

She was not sure why. Soon enough everyone would know she had run off to Paris with Matthew, and that James had not known of it. When she had fled, she had not thought about coming back, save that she would return, move back in with her mother, and try to rebuild her life. Atone for the foolish mistakes she had made by taking care of her little sister or brother. She had not considered how it would look—not just to the whole gossiping Enclave, but to her friends: to Lucie and Thomas, Christopher and Anna.… They had been James’s friends first, and Lucie was his sister. They would be loyal to him, disgusted with her.

She wondered if the same thoughts had occurred to Matthew. If he was worried what his friends would say, would think. But he was a boy. People treated boys differently.

“Here we are,” Magnus said, snapping Cordelia out of her reverie. “Here” was Will’s office. That is to say, it was a room with fewer books than the Institute library, more books than most other rooms, and a tall slatted chair that could roll around the shelves on wheels. It also had a number of comfortable chairs scattered about, and just rising from those chairs were Will, Tessa, Charles, and the Inquisitor.

Cordelia stood back as Will and Tessa came to embrace James. If Tessa noticed that he looked disheveled and unkempt, she did not show it, only kissed him on the forehead in a way that made Cordelia miss her own mother, and Alastair.

“Matthew,” Charles said, without crossing the room to meet his brother. “Late as usual, I see. Did it take you that long to get across town?”

“I was in Paris, Charles,” said Matthew tightly.

“Were you?” Charles said vaguely. “I’d forgotten. Well, you’ve missed Mother; she was here earlier, but she went home feeling unwell. And you’ve all missed Maurice’s tale. I’m sure Will and Tessa will fill you in on any details you need to know.”

“Surely it would be better for them to hear it from the Inquisitor himself,” said Magnus mildly.

“The Inquisitor has already told the story several times today,” said Charles. “After his ordeal, he needs to rest. As none of you are upper members of the Enclave—and you, warlock, are not even a Shadowhunter—that does not seem necessary.” He turned to the Inquisitor. “Would you agree?”

“Indeed,” said Maurice Bridgestock. He did look a bit battered, Cordelia had to admit, with healing bruises on his face; he was holding his right arm gingerly, as if it had been injured, though surely he’d been given healing runes? “Will, I trust you will take all the measures we have discussed. Tessa—” He nodded stiffly in her direction, and walked out of the room without a word to anyone else, Charles at his heels.

Magnus closed the door behind them. His expression was stony; Cordelia could hardly blame him.

“How nice that Charles has found someone new to adopt him,” said Matthew. He was flushed with anger; Cordelia suspected there was some surprise and hurt there too. He and his brother had a complex, often antagonistic relationship, but they had left things on a better note, she’d thought. Charles seemed back to his old, unpleasant self now—but why?

“All of you,” added Will, flopping into an armchair, “sit down. You’re hovering, and I loathe hovering.”

Once seats were taken, Will looked them over. “Alas,” he said, “I am tasked with relaying to you an exciting and drama-filled tale. A terrible responsibility to have fallen upon me.”